Meizo seemed to have anticipated Lo Quen's doubts. Stepping forward, he carefully withdrew a slightly weathered parchment scroll from his wide sleeves and presented it respectfully with both hands.
"Your Grace, this is exactly what I came to report. After investigating House Tyrell's motives, I found nothing concrete. However, I did uncover something peculiar—House Tyrell has hired agents in Oldtown to seek out an exceptional painter, someone to create a portrait of Lord Mace Tyrell's beloved daughter, Margaery Tyrell."
Lo Quen unrolled the parchment.
The edges of the paper were worn, clearly passed through many hands. The portrait depicted a young maiden of tender age, her features exquisitely fine. Her eyes still held the innocence of youth, while a faint, shy smile curved her lips. Her gaze was clear and luminous, like that of a fawn in the woods—pure, gentle, and untouched by the world.
Meizo added, "I obtained this from the children in Oldtown. Lord Mace invited numerous skilled painters to capture his daughter's likeness, and they produced quite a number of discarded sketches. This is one of them."
"The children" was Meizo's chosen name for his intelligence agents—a counterpart to Varys's "little birds."
Lo Quen lowered his gaze again, studying the girl's face on the parchment, and understanding dawned in an instant.
"So that's it..."
A cold smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Though he knew the original story well, his early arrival had caused events to unfold ahead of their time.
In the original timeline, Renly and the Tyrells conspired to offer Margaery to Robert, hoping to depose Cersei and make Margaery the new queen. During Eddard Stark's journey to King's Landing to serve as Robert's Hand, Renly had shown Eddard her portrait while welcoming him.
Renly's intent then was to test whether Eddard thought Margaery resembled Lyanna—to better carry out the queen replacement scheme.
But now, Renly had acted far earlier than expected.
What was he planning by advancing this queen swap so soon?
A flicker of unease crossed Lo Quen's mind.
Renly might have died first in the War of the Five Kings, but he was also the only one among them who could be called sane. Lo Quen had no doubt Renly possessed the qualities of a true king. He was graceful, generous, and skillful in winning people's hearts, admired by both nobles and commoners alike.
Had it not been for the Red Priestess's sorcery, he might very well have claimed the Iron Throne.
Even so, Lo Quen could not fully grasp Renly's purpose in acting as an intermediary between Robert and House Tyrell.
Did he hate the Lannisters? That reason alone seemed weak.
Did he desire the Iron Throne? Without question, he did. But replacing the queen wouldn't bring him any closer to it—especially since, at this point, he had no idea Cersei's children were Jaime's bastards.
Unless... his plan was to make Margaery queen, then bed her himself, get her pregnant, and have Robert name her child as heir—thus paving Renly's path to the throne.
After all, Renly enjoyed his wine and ale freely. He could keep his affair with Loras while still being open to women.
But could such a scheme really work?
Lo Quen thought Renly was being far too optimistic. Still, it gave him a valuable piece of leverage—a card to play against Renly whenever the need arose.
He looked up at Meizo. "Who have the Seven Kingdoms sent to sign the treaty?"
Meizo's lips curved in a knowing smile. "The King's own brother, Master of Ships, Great Lord of Dragonstone—Stannis Baratheon."
Lo Quen blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. "The King of the Seven Kingdoms must truly despise his brother."
He could already picture Stannis's expression—grim, rigid, and iron-gray—upon hearing the order.
The delegation of the Seven Kingdoms was led by Eddard Stark, yet Robert refused to let the Great Lord sign the treaty himself. Instead, he sent another man from afar to do it—clearly unwilling to have Lord Stark bear the shame of signing such a humiliating document.
Considering that Robert's famous bastard, Edric Storm, had been conceived on Stannis's own wedding bed with a lady of House Florent, the arrangement was pure Robert through and through.
The king shits, the brother wipes.
...
Tyrosh, residence of the Seven Kingdoms' delegation.
The atmosphere in the room was so heavy it felt as if it could drip from the air.
Thick velvet curtains shut out part of the sunlight and the noise outside, yet their weight only deepened the suffocating tension within.
Everyone had just finished passing around the letter from King's Landing. The cold royal seal and its harshly worded message pressed down on every heart in the room.
The first piece of news was that Great Lord Stannis Baratheon would arrive as the King's plenipotentiary, bearing reparations to sign the treaty.
Eddard Stark held the letter tightly, his knuckles whitening slightly. His feelings were a mix of relief and unease.
On one hand, he was grateful Robert hadn't sent him to sign the humiliating document. On the other, he thought Robert's treatment of Stannis was too cruel—even for him.
If Stannis signed this treaty, he would become the laughingstock of the entire Seven Kingdoms.
But that was not what had truly brought everyone together. The real concern lay in the second message from the Small Council.
It wasn't so much a message as it was an order.
After the envoys had reported to King's Landing that the surviving Targaryen siblings were living in Tyrosh and seeking to forge a marriage alliance with the Easterners, King Robert and Hand of the King Jon Arryn were said to be deeply shocked. They had issued a direct command: the envoys were to kill the Targaryen brother and sister—no matter the cost.
Littlefinger wore his usual faint smile as he glanced toward Lord Eddard.
"My lord, His Grace's order is simple. We are to remove the siblings. We could hire assassins—or poison them."
Harmen Uller, the Lord of Hellholt from Dorne, let out a cold laugh. "Poison? To stoop so low against two children? Lord Littlefinger, do you not fear offending the gods?"
Littlefinger stroked the short beard at his chin, his smile deepening. "Ah, what compassion from a Dornishman. Your words almost made me forget Dorne is the land most famed for its poisons."
Harmen shot back, "Even so, we will not poison children."
Littlefinger stood and began pacing leisurely. "Let's recall a bit of history, shall we? During the First Dornish War, how did Wyl of Wyl treat the people of Fawnton and Old Oak? Tsk, tsk. His deeds were far worse than poisoning a few children..."
Harmen's aged face flushed as if struck. Dornish warfare had always been brutal—he had little ground to rebuke anyone for cruelty.
Eddard's voice cut sharply through the room. "Enough!"
He turned to Lord Harmen. "We will not poison those children. It is dishonorable."
Littlefinger blinked, his tone feigning disbelief. "Lord Eddard, have you lost your senses? This is His Grace's command—approved by the Small Council, especially the Hand of the King. You cannot simply ignore it."
Conflict flickered across Eddard's face. "I will return to King's Landing myself and explain it to His Grace and the Hand."
The room fell silent. The envoys exchanged looks, none daring to speak further.
After all, this was Eddard Stark's decision—and if blame was to be cast, it would fall on him.
Eddard glanced around at the faces filled with calculation and unease, then shifted the discussion back to the matter of Stannis and the treaty.
...
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